Pledge of Fates
by Picca
Summary: "The familiar feeling of Apparition took hold of my stomach and we were tumbling through space and time. Towards safety. Because that was Mother's last promise: A world without war." Its 6th year, Hermione makes a momentous miscalculation and Draco becomes an unwilling hero - it could happen to anybody, right? Add unexpected visitors from the future and you've got the perfect mess.
1. Prologue

**_Disclaimer: Let's keep this short and simple: I am not J.K. Rowlings and I don't own any of her creations. That being said, please read on ^.^!_ **

**_Timeline: Up to the beginning of HBP everything's in accordance with the books. Chapter One is set shortly after they return to Hogwarts for their Sixth Year. _**

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**Prologue**

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It was the silence that had me sitting up straight on our patch-made bed of leaves and dry grass. Shivering, I drew Mum's old coat tighter around my tiny frame. Next to me Seb stirred.

"Wha-?"

"Shh." He shouldn't talk. I had to listen to the silence. Panic began to rise from the tips of my icy toes, gathering in my stomach and spilling like cold bile into my throat.

_Lyra._

She wasn't crying.

_Lyra. Lyra_.

For months and months and months she had cried, and when she hadn't had any tears left she had sniffled hoarsely, rubbing at dry eyes, only to start crying again. For her bed, for her doll, for real food ... for our mother. Always, even in sleep, her hiccups had become the backdrop to our hidden little life deep in the labyrinth of caves we'd been calling our home for so many months.

_Lyra. Lyra_. _Lyra._

My legs felt like they might give out again when I shakily stood up, reaching over the baby towards Lyra's sleeping place.

She wasn't there.

The shock of it had me up and running, almost tripping over the long, trailing ends of Mum's coat, up and up through the long, winding tunnels. Seb was wide awake now. "What?" He was calling out again, after me. "Vi? What's happening?"

_Lyra. Lyra._ It was spilling over my lips in an almost desperate scream. For him to hear. For her to answer: "Lyra!"

She was standing at the end of the last tunnel. Her small blanket clutched against her tiny chest, and her thumb firmly embedded between her teeth, she was staring out into the green darkness of the forest in utter silence.

"Merlin, Lyra! Don't scare me like that. What are you doing here? It's cold. You shouldn't be here. Come in. Are you even listening to me? Come in!" I was babbling, almost screaming, tugging at her arm. Teetering on the edge between relief and the last residues of panic.

She turned her unnaturally large grey eyes towards me. "Vi," she whispered, "I saw it, Vi. They are coming for us. Mummy said so. She said so, Vi."

Her words stilled me. "Who's coming, Lyra?"

Her large lashes blinked once. Down. Up. "_They_!"

Behind me Seb breathed sharply, before grabbing my right hand and Lyra's left, tugging us quickly deeper into the cave.

"Wha-" this time it was me who asked, and Seb who shushed me, pointing behind us. A quick glance over my shoulder had my brown eyes go wide. Between the trees small lights were moving in our direction.

Wandtips. Here and there, their light gleamed off of the metallic surface of silver masks.

While the panic before had been like cold bile creeping up at me, it was now a tidal wave, incapacitating me in its surge. Seb, always the levelheaded one, had more presence of mind. "We've got to go," he whispered into my ear. "We've got to use _it_, Viola. We've got no choice. We've got to _go_."

At my right Lyra agreed. "That's what Mummy said!"

She had been too loud. Somewhere down below shouting could be heard. The wandtip-lights were coming closer. Fast.

The panic dropped to my feet, making me run, dripping, stumbling down the tunnels, deep down into the cave. Where the baby was. Where our bags were and where the book was. The book that would save us.

It would save us. I knew it would. Because Mum had said so. And Mum was always right.

Behind us, the shouts were growing louder, and the lights brighter.

_There_, there was the cave, the bags, my bag.

I was rummaging through it - underwear, the last hard bread, Mum's picture, her wallet, Dad's wand – _where is it? Where _is_ it?_

The baby had started crying, because Seb had startled him, waking him up too quickly, and too roughly.

Not caring, I turned the bag upside down, letting its contents, all those precious treasures, tumble down onto the cold stone floor.

There it was. Finally.

The cave became lighter, the closer they came to finding us.

_They_, Lyra had said. _They're coming for us_.

Death Eaters. The living nightmare that had shadowed our lives for as long as I could remember. That had taken our mum.

"Ready?" I hissed at my siblings, gripping the book in one hand and Dad's wand in the other, feeling them take hold of my coat.

"Yeah," Seb whispered into my ear, "hurry." His voice was breaking at the edges.

The words tumbled over my lips quickly, with a sleepwalking clarity. I didn't know what I was saying. It didn't matter. Mum had made me and Seb repeat them over and over again until we could speak them in our dreams.

And then the familiar tugging feeling of Apparition took hold of my stomach, and we were tumbling through space and time.

Towards safety.

Because that was Mother's last promise.

A world without cold caves and a chronic lack of blankets. A world full of things like sundaes, and chocolate frogs, and brooms, and amusement parks. A world with gentle old wizards, friendly giants, shape-shifting dogs, good friends and so many books that you'd need three lifetimes to read them all.

A world with dads who were there to kiss you goodnight and mums that didn't cry themselves to sleep.

A world without war.

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_**AN: I hope you liked this first taste of my story. If you want to know more don't hesitate to review or PM me ^.^!**_


	2. Chapter 1 - Of Answers Given Sideways

**_Disclaimer: Ahem, ahem, I hereby declare that I do not and will never own any of J.K. Rowlings works, characters or worlds! _**

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**Chapter 1 – Of Answers Given Sideways**

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"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Ron Weasley's voice was cracking at the edges as he glanced around the cold stone room.

Hermione rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. Her friend frowned, "What was that?"

She blew a stubborn curl out of her eyes and glanced up from the potion she was brewing. "I said," she pronounced carefully while selecting the second symmetrical piece of mandrake root. "That someone who faced down Death Eaters, Werewolves and," she gave him a knowing look, "gigantic spiders, should not be afraid of something as mundane as an empty classroom. Especially, when we know for a fact that he's been gone for three days now and won't be back for another two."

Ron, his cheeks tinged a telling red, shrugged. "It's just the room 'Mione. I can _feel _him watching us."

"Well," his friend sniffed, "if you are that clairvoyant, Ronald, maybe we could stop all this nonsense right now and you'd just tell me the answers we're looking for."

Ron shuffled on the balls of his feet, too nervous to sit still, and gave the oversized stuffed bat another suspicious glance. From its place high on the wall behind Snape's desk, it glared right back at him. "That's just the thing 'Mione. Why _are_ you doing this? I mean, weren't you the one who ran out of Trelawney's classroom third year because it was, and I quote, 'all bogus'?"

She carefully added the three and a half spoons of ground-up moonstone before answering. "I believe the exact words I used were 'illogical and unscientific,' which is why I'm going to prove her so-called prophecy to be just that."

Ron looked the farthest thing from convinced. "But why _here_?" His whine returned unfailingly to the matter of his greatest discomfort. According to him, even the dungeons would have been preferable since Snape had deserted them for the very Defence against the Dark Arts classroom they were currently occupying.

Slughorn, after all, would be nose-deep into his evening drink by now and wouldn't notice them if they were to do cartwheels in the buff on top of his overly large dining table, Ron had argued. Not that he minded seeing Hermione with her clothes off...

Anyhow, a Potions classroom would have been the natural place to brew a bloody potion in, wouldn't it?

Unfortunately, Hermione hadn't been overly willing to follow his arguments. Instead she had graced him with that withering look – the one that only she and his mother could pull off to perfection and that never failed to make him feel like a blithering fool for even breathing – over the top of her large book on _Advancing Arithmancy into the Realm of Providence_ and hissed in the snotty voice that neither years nor social experience ever seemed to diminish: "Did you not listen to me, Ronald? The Potions classroom is impossible for this. We need the essence of the moon..." At his blank look she sighed. "Moonlight, Ron. Merlin, where_ were _your second year? Oh, never mind, it's not important. The point is, my research concluded that the DADA Classroom not only lies perfectly on the crossing of the 7th degree of longitude and the 3rd degree of latitude after Salinius Longbeard, but will also be in direct alignment with the northern star Thuban on the night of the 31st October, which in itself has been known as a strong magical date since the Roman wizard Markus Piatus first published his magical calendar in the year 126 A.D., which, as you'd know if you hadn't fallen asleep in History of Magic, posed as the foundation of most of our modern holidays, such as Christmas and Samhain, otherwise known as Halloween..."

She had gone on well after that, ranting about certain numeric-systems and equations which supposedly confirmed a balance of dark and light magic in Snape's dreadful Classroom of Doom – something which he neither could nor truly desired to understand - and he had soon admitted defeat, buried under so much confusing information that he could barely see straight. She tended to do that when she wanted to get her way, and he had the sneaking suspicion it was very much on purpose.

He had given into her overload of logic then, but the more time he had to actually spend in the dreary room, the more his conviction that their endeavour would be successful, or was even strictly necessary, began to wane.

Hermione was looking at him now, with that very same withering look, her lips pressed into a firm line of annoyance. "Would you be quiet Ronald? I need to concentrate." She let three small drops of Centaur-blood fall into the kettle from a height of exactly 77 centimetres – not inches! – and watched with satisfaction as her potion turned a florescent, mother of pearl colour. Extinguishing the flame under her kettle with a swish of her wand, she stepped back and allowed herself a satisfied sigh before turning to her best friend. "I thought you wanted to help Harry," she hissed.

"Merlin, Hermione," Ron groaned, "we don't even know if this is truly helping him. You just can't stand being bested by Trelawney. _That_'s what this is all about."

She stiffened as if he'd hit her, before saying in a tense voice for what was quite possibly the ninth time that evening: "What I can't stand is knowing that the future of our entire world should rest on the words of possibly the worst Divination Professor Hogwarts has ever seen. It's bad enough that the whole thing got Harry's parents killed, but I will not let him waste away under the pressure of this damnable Prophecy and do nothing. And if I have to go so far as to turn to Divination myself, so be it. But excuse me if I want to approach the whole thing on a more scientific level than relying on tea-leaves, cloud formations, and spontaneous bouts of insanity!"

"Circe, Hermione, relax, I was just saying-"

"Well, Ron, stop. You're not helping."

It was not entirely true. Ron had been helpful ... somewhat. He had even supported her plan wholeheartedly – that was until she had divulged the location of their little midnight fortune telling. Like her, Ron had watched with ever growing worry as the combined weight of the guilt over Sirius Black's death and the revealed prophecy was settling on Harry's shoulders like a black, overly large coat, stealing slowly but surely the light from their friend's eyes and making him appear old well beyond his years. They could not restore Sirius to life; Hermione had looked into it, but unless they were in possession of a veil perfectly aligned with the one in the Department of Mysteries as well as a Stone of Life, there was nothing much they could do. As it was very improbable for them to ever come upon either, much less both, they had been forced to look at other avenues to take at least some of the weight from their friend's shoulders.

Hermione, never having had much faith in Trelawney's supposed abilities, soon immersed herself in research on everything she could find concerning prophecies. Most of the books she consulted were unanimous in their distinction between three major ways of divining the future, or rather future possibilities. The first were the so-called contact prophecies, based on the believe that certain objects - like tea-leaves, clouds, bones or animal innards - had mystical ties to the future and were, as such, able to divulge tiny pieces of information about said future. These types of prophecies required little talent, a certain amount of skill, and an even larger quantity of belief in the truths they divined. As far as Hermione could discern, those were Trelawney's favourite methods of divination for obvious reasons.

Under the second category fell the prophecies that were based on the much more scientific approach of Arithmancy. With the help of complicated equations and magical charts, one could predict the future outcome of a certain event or chain of events. Unfortunately, it was very rare that one could take into account all of the variables, which could be changed by the sudden, unpredicted actions of one or more of the persons concerned. Thus, divining with Arithmancy was risky and uncertain, but could, if done right, reveal valuable information about the future.

The third were the aptly named "spontaneous Prophecies". They were largely considered the most trustworthy of all prophecies. They were usually delivered through the medium of an "oracle", a witch or wizard who possessed a certain gift in Divination, at a seemingly spontaneous point in time and usually in the form of a riddle. Some experts argued that their trustworthiness rested solely in the fact that they were _considered_ trustworthy by most, thus making the prophecy self-fulfilling, if only enough concerned people knew about and believed in it. Seeing Harry's case, Hermione found this argument most convincing, but had little to no success in getting her friend to see his predicament from the logical point of view.

Some books hinted at a fourth category but would not disclose much information, only stating, that those forms of divining were much too intermingled with dark magic to even talk about.

After a few weeks of largely unsuccessful arithmancy – it turned out Hermione was simply not informed enough to divine anything other than the last doomed stand-off between Harry and Voldemort, which Trelawney's bogus Prophecy had already predicted – she started to get more and more curious about that elusive fourth category. After all, it didn't mean that she would eventually use one of those dark methods if she just researched them a little, right? Fortunately for her, the library at Grimmauld Place seemed to be practically riddled with books on one dark art or another. While she had usually steered very clear of them – after all, one never knew what kind of curse might fall upon you, once you touch their leather bindings – she now immersed herself in a dark cloud of ill-odoured, old, snarling books.

It took its toll on her, painting deep blue circles under her eyes, and making Mrs Weasley frown upon her ever decreasing eating-habits, but in the end it proved fruitful. Very fruitful indeed.

Which was why she was here now combining several spells - some would call it dark magic but Hermione preferred the term 'resourceful' for the sake of her own sanity - with the Serum Fortuna potion, arithmancy, and a little handy astronomy.

Ron's voice broke into her reminiscence. "Are you done yet?"

Her jaw began to hurt slightly from keeping any rash words from escaping. "_Soon_, Ronald."

"Good. Because I _really_ don't want to miss breakfast."

Telling herself that being difficult was just his way of dealing with an uncomfortable, unknown and potentially dangerous situation was only doing so much to keep Hermione's temper in check at this point. Seething silently, she began to carefully draw three intertwined circles onto the stone floor with the tip of her wand. They would ground Thuban's natural connection with the fourth dimension, otherwise known as time, in their middle. Next, she circled the glowing lines four times, carefully pouring two thirds of the Serum Fortuna into the perfect ring surrounding them, which she had sliced into the floor before brewing the potion. Lastly, she placed the remaining potion, inside its glass goblet, on top of the point where all three of the interwoven, glowing circles connected.

Looking over her shoulder, she graced her friend with an icy glare. "Just_ ten_ more minutes, Ronald, including the clean-up after. And for your information, it's not even midnight yet."

Of course he knew that it was not _after_ midnight. For the last few days Hermione had done almost nothing else but remind him of the importance to begin the ritual – which she persistently refused to call_ dark_ "per se"- at the first strike of midnight and end it on the last. She had done so because it would be his task to keep track of the time, in case they wouldn't be able to hear the astronomy tower's clock clearly enough over her chanting of the ritual.

Which was why her angry glare was slowly morphing into an expectant look. "Ready?"

He glanced down to his pocket-watch – last year's birthday gift from Harry – and upon seeing the sweep hand closing in dangerously fast on midnight, he nodded. "Yeah. Get into position."

Before she turned to kneel down inside her magical circle, he could have sworn that he saw a certain look on her face. A look of excited expectancy. The one she only got when she was called upon to answer a particularly difficult question in class and she just _knew_ that she would do so perfectly. Hermione Granger was excited to prove herself once again. It didn't seem to matter that in doing so she would perform a ritual verging on dark – no matter how much she tried to argue the opposite. Not for the first time Ron felt an icy shiver run down his spine. In the light of what they would be doing in mere seconds, he didn't dare call the feeling foreboding.

Lost in thought, he hadn't heard the clock strike midnight, but it must have for Hermione had already started chanting.

"... en kshertu sekeru-na. Ar eq-kua er seta au…"

Listening to her now, Ron whished for the first time in his Hogwarts career that he had taken Ancient Runes after all. The force of the powerful, ancient words washed through him in continuous waves, sending even more shivers down his back, and he really, really wanted to know what it was she was saying. For all he knew she could be promising her soul to some dark demon in return for his help.

Or worse … her virginity.

"… au eh-heh hah Te thru ent kshesev neseni…"

She wasn't … right?

Hermione was raising the goblet now, holding it high above her head, her voice taking on an imploring tone.

"Nuk ari sapu en enti u-nen."

The air in the cold classroom began to stir. Small whirlwinds started to dance across the desks and chairs, pulling at the offending bat on the wall and causing Snape's papers to fly through the air. Ron couldn't help but curse slightly while taking refuge behind the desk closest to Hermione. The overgrown bat_ had_ given him a P on that last essay, after all.

"Er neheh pu hen-eh t'etta ar."

He was really beginning to grow nervous now. They were never going to clean up that mess without Snape noticing something was amiss. And, of course, he would blame them right away. Or more importantly, Harry. And how would that have been helping their friend, then?

The storm raging around Ron was steadily growing in intensity.

Was that thunder he was hearing in the distance?

"… seo kshemt …"

Maybe they really should stop this insanity right now… Glancing down at the clock in his hand he saw that they had only a couple of seconds left. "… Hermione…" He tried. "Hurry up!" His voice was shaky and too small to reach her.

"… t'eb-eh sen …"

Hermione's voice was rising over the storm, her wild hair flying around her head, her eyes almost glowing in the sudden darkness, the moon having disappeared behind a cloud long ago.

"Hermione I really think…"

"…EH-BA-K.."

"Hermio-"

"TER-K!" Throwing her arms in the air, Hermione let the potion flow over herself. The storm froze, holding desks, papers and objects-of-questionable-origin suspended in midair. In the sudden silence the tower's last chime rang high and clear. Shaking slightly, Ron put one hand to the ground to slowly push himself up – and froze.

Like a silver lance a single ray of moonlight had broken through the dark clouds, illuminating Hermione's still form. She had let the goblet fall to the floor, her hands still raised in silent prayer above her head, her face turned upwards, her eyes closed, and her features a picture of perfect bliss.

Ron's voice stuck to his throat, "He … Hermi … mione?"

Almost imperceptible at first, her still form began to rise, her kneeling legs leaving the floor and stretching out before her, until she was hovering in a vertical line almost three feet above the floor.

Panic went straight through Ron. In all of her ramblings about this night and the ritual, Hermione had most definitely not mentioned falling into a trance and turning into some kind of human broom.

For Merlin's sake, she was afraid of heights.

What if she had miscalculated? What if she had called upon some kind of demon? Ron quickly glanced around the room. No glowing eyes. No snarling teeth. No scent of sulfur. Nothing.

What if she never woke up again?

What if the moonlight would take her into outer space? Or catapult her through time and space? What if she landed in Tom Riddle's Hogwarts? Or in the Time of the Founders? Oh, she would just love that, wouldn't she? Discussing Muggleborn and House Elf Rights with Salazar Slytherin himself, while Ron was left trying to explain to his already grieving best friend why they had suddenly lost their female half.

Now that would not be happening. Growling, Ron threw himself at the girl's floating form, intent on pulling her down and out of the eerie light's reach, but the ritual's shield around Hermione had him flying backwards and into one of the desks still floating in the air.

Falling with a sickening thud onto the floor, Ron registered two things. One, the school desks were quite heavy when they landed on you. Second, there was no way that anybody in the castle would fail to notice the blinding light which was suddenly illuminating the DADA-classroom. Especially not when it was accompanied by deafening thunder.

"Damn," Ron Weasley murmured weakly, letting his head fall heavily back onto the floor behind him, the glittering darkness of unconsciousness already creeping into the edges of his vision, "there goes that prefect badge."

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_**AN: I hope you liked this and things became a little clearer - and if not, well, there's always the next chapter ^.^!  
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_**A huge thanks to all of you who reviewed: Panchat, Dibs on Logan and anonymous! Virtual cookies for you all and to Panchat: I hope this chapter satisfied your appetite - at least until the next time ^.^!**_


	3. Chapter 2 – Of Quiet Evenings

**Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own any of J.K. Rowlings creations!**

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**Chapter 2 – Of Quiet Evenings and Unwelcome Surprises**

Albus Dumbledore had been quite enjoying his evening.

It was a rare enough occurrence as of late. A burnt, cursed limb had its day-to-day disadvantages and pain potions could only do so much before dangerously impairing the sharpness of his mind. But that particular evening the throbbing in his arm had died down to a dull lull, getting him through a fine Halloween feast, an enlightening Floo conversation with Severus concerning Voldemort's latest - and thankfully unsuccessful - Samhain Ritual, and a late night-cup with Minerva.

Now, as he was leaning back into his overstuffed armchair, warming his feet on the gleaming embers of the fire and nursing one last cup of hot chocolate, he was for the first time in a long while almost at peace with himself.

It was in this precise moment of rare contentment that Fawkes began to stir on top of his perch, nervously moving from one leg to the other. The phoenix' agitation was Dumbledore's only warning before a sudden, deafening thunder had him almost spilling the sticky contents of his cup onto his long, white beard.

"For Merlin's…" A quick glance out of the window confirmed the evening's continuously calm weather.

"Aqq!", answered Fawkes, opening his glimmering, majestic wings and taking flight for a few seconds before returning to his perch, fidgeting, agitated, and seemingly as unsure of what was happening as his master was.

A feeling that, admittedly, Dumbledore was not acquainted with overly well.

Striding over towards the window facing the castle, the old warlock caught a faint light from the corner of his eye. Squinting slightly, he realized that part of the first floor to the right of the great hall and a bit of a the courtyard below were illuminated by a strange yellow light. Again the loud thunder shook the castle.

Alarmed, the headmaster turned towards the rudely awakened portraits on his wall, who'd begun to whisper amongst themselves. "Everard, if you please."

The sallow-faced wizard turned his dark head away from where he had been arguing quite animatedly with Phineas Black. "Yes, Albus?"

"Your portrait on the first floor, Everard, the one with the delightful apple tree. It does still hang across from the Defence Classroom, does it not?"

A slight smile flickered over the haggard features. "Indeed, it does, Albus."

"If you'd pay it a quick visit, Everard…"

The ancient headmaster had already departed only to reappear seconds later, his face having taken on an even more profoundly haunted expression.

"It seems a few students have meddled with magic they did not understand, Albus." A slight pause, for Everard Prewett had always had somewhat of a flare for the dramatic. "Dark magic, so it seems."

Albus Dumbledore was already on his way to the door. "Did you see who it was?", he asked the gaunt wizard, who was following him through the portraits of his protesting colleagues.

Everard's lips were one taut line. "I believe I saw one of my offspring trapped under a desk, Albus. Ronald Weasley, if I'm not mistaken." Muttering under his breath he shook his head, still following Dumbledore out of the office and down the winding corridors. "Weasleys, that line has never ceased to cause trouble for my good name." Then, even quieter. "Phineas is never going to let me live this one down."

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By the time Albus Dumbledore had reached the first floor he had encountered several professors, who like him had been pulled away from their nightly rituals, a few irritated ghosts and an enraged Mr. Filch; the latter already spinning somewhat disturbing tales of corporal punishment under his breath.

"Do you know what this could be about, Albus?" asked Minerva McGonagall, her face beneath the red night-cap a little grey since Everard had grouchily informed her that the culprits where quite possible from her own house.

"I'm afraid I'm not quite sure, Minerva," he murmured as they rounded the last corner and came to a halt in front of the oak, classroom door. She knew that tone. The tone that said: _'I have an idea what this is about, but I dearly hope I am wrong this time.'_ Unfortunately, Albus Dumbledore had the uncanny ability to always be right.

The corridor was eerily quiet. Only a slight, already fading, yellowish light flickered behind the partially opened door. Even the portraits had mostly deserted their frames. Dumbledore's shoulders squared almost imperceptibly before he reached out and pushed open the door to the D.A.D.A. classroom, wand clasped tightly in his good hand.

Raising his eyebrows, he took in the chaotic scene before him, before casting a quick non-verbal detection spell.

Almost immediately it picked up a variety of latent magical signatures in the room. Residues of the spells cast. Behind his moon shaped spectacles Dumbledore's blue eyes lost their twinkle for a few moments. There had been powerful magic at work here. Very powerful indeed. So powerful that it confused his spell, making it unsure if there had been only two or indeed four different wants at the origin of the mess he was currently facing.

Next to him McGonagall made a sound somewhere between distressed and disappointed, rushing past the headmaster to kneel beside a still form lying inside what had obviously been at one point a magical circle.

Dumbledore felt a slight stab of disappointment himself as he took in the girl's unmistakable wild head of curls, though he wasn't quite sure if it was due to the fact that the brightest student at his school had apparently been dabbling into somewhat dark magic – or that she hadn't been able to control it.

Sighing almost imperceptibly he asked Professor Flitwick to free a still trapped Ronald Weasley, before moving over to where Minerva was fretting over the unmoving form of Hermione Granger, waving her wand frantically in search for any hidden injuries or residues of harmful magic.

"Albus," she said as he drew nearer, "we need to get her to Poppy as soon as possible. I can't tell what's wrong with her, yet she won't wake up." As if to prove her words she cast another _Ennervate_, but Hermione remained in deep slumber.

"Yes," murmured the headmaster, "that might be for the best. Pomona, if you'd please send a _Patronus_ to the Hospital Wing. Tell Poppy we might need her help for Mr. Weasley as well. As to Ms. Granger, it might be prudent if we'd call Severus back from his ... vacation. I suspect he'd like to know what happened to his-" Adjusting his spectacles he interrupted himself, bending down closer towards the girl. There was something... "You might want to stop for a moment, Minerva. I think we've got quite the interesting situation on our hands." He reached carefully over the prone form of his student, tugging at the black fabric of her outer-robes.

Professor McGonagall frowned, her eyes following his movements before growing wide in startled realisation. Hermione Granger was lying perfectly still on her side, her arms stretched out beside her, her curls forming a wild halo around her pale face. Now that the head of Gryffindor house wasn't as preoccupied with the well-being of her most promising pupil she could see what she had previously over-looked.

Beneath the cloak, tucked closely to Hermione's left shoulder, one could make out the outline of a second, smaller lump. Looking even closer McGonagall could discern a tiny nose pressed into the girl's slender neck. Dumbledore's gentle hands pulled back part of the concealing fabric, confirming their growing suspicions.

Whimpering quietly, the small child pressed even closer to Hermione, as if trying to meld into her, refusing to as much as look at the adults staring down at it.

McGonagall drew back in shock. "Is that... What is this, Albus?"

Dumbledore tugged at his long beard, his eyes pensive, but he did not answer. Instead, Professor Babbling, who'd squeezed in between the headmaster and his deputy headmistress, exclaimed. "I cannot believe she succeeded in doing it!"

At this Dumbledore raised his bushy eyebrows. "Succeeded in doing what, exactly, Bathsheba? Oh, Pomona, did you send that _Patronus_?"

"Of course, she should be here momentarily," answered Professor Sprout just as Babbling explained excitedly: "We've been reading an ancient Hittite text about it just this week and were discussing the possibility. Ms Granger was quite certain that it was indeed possible. Said something about Muggle technology and genies."

"Genes," corrected Professor Dumbledore absent mindedly, while McGonagall gave her colleague a shrewd look. "What did she say was possible, Bathsheba? Please do get to the point."

"Well, creating a perfect copy of one's self, of course. She called it clouning. Though I would never have thought that Ms Granger would go this far to prove her point. But I have to say," she gestured towards the shaking child's body, "she succeeded magnificently!"

Looking back towards the child, Minerva McGonagall could certainly see where the Ancient Runes Professor had gotten the idea. Even as hidden as the girl's features were, pressed against Hermione's shoulder, one could tell that they were the very image of the young woman's delicate facial structure. The same slightly upwards-turned nose, the same full lips, the same high cheekbones, the same heart-shaped face. Even the unruly mass of golden-brown curls was identical.

Undisturbed by the discussion that had broken out behind him upon Babbling's exclamation, Dumbledore carefully put his good hand on the little girl's back, rubbing comfortingly. "There, there, little one, no one's going to hurt you here."

Maybe it was the warm voice, or the gentle caress, or even the benevolent, grandfatherly aura, which always seemed to surround Albus Dumbledore, but the shaking began to calm slightly.

"Well, well," the headmaster murmured after a while, "as appealing as the thought of Hermione Granger successfully cloning herself might be, it seems this is not what happened here."

Blinking behind her unruly curls, the child was curiously staring up at them out of tearful, startling grey eyes.


	4. Chapter 3 – Of Shrunken Bits

_**Disclaimer: Still not mine - only the plot and anybody you don't recognise. **_

* * *

**Chapter 3 – Of Shrunken Bits and Unlikely Heroes**

Blaise Zabini blinked. And blinked again

As a Slytherin from a long line of very … _resourceful_, pure-blooded wizards there were indeed not many things that could truly astound him.

When his mother had tried to explain to his seven-year-old self that 'Papa' had gone on a "_very long vacation_" he had simply nodded and returned to his book, knowing instinctively that his father had met the same fate as his dog Paolo who'd "_run away_" just one year prior. And so he had not been overly surprised when a few years later Paolo's littermate Luigi did not bring back the stick – which he'd accidentally thrown into his mother's priced belladonna-bed – but a bony hand with his father's signet ring still attached.

When, at the end of Fourth Year, a bloody Harry Potter had appeared along with a very dead Cedric Diggory, Blaise had been a little bit disturbed but not truly astonished. And when, a few hours later, an ecstatic Draco Malfoy had confirmed that the Dark Lord had indeed returned Blaise had simply rearranged his investments. There wasn't much money to be made in integrated Muggle-wizard technology that year.

But nothing – no sneaking around, no insights, no cunning, no instinctive knowledge of human behaviour – could have prepared Blaise for what he had found sitting in the middle of his best friend's bed when he had come up to Draco's private room, looking to borrow a potions textbook.

The _Thing_ scrunched up its tiny nose – its lips forming a pout so purely _Draco_ that Blaise couldn't help but blink once more – and opened its mouth to let loose the most earth-shattering wail Blaise had ever had the misfortune of hearing.

'_Oh for the love of …_ ' Before the noise could leak out of the door and attract any unwanted attention, he waved his wand in a quick flourish, "_Silencio_". There.

Startled by its own sudden silence, It scrunched up its entire face, opening its mouth in a wide, almost- toothless gape.

Nothing.

Slowly, a telling red colour was creeping over its entire, rather tiny body. Until It looked – despite its obviously blond hair –like a poor imitation of one Ronald Weasley.

Instinctively, Blaise knew that if he were to lift the spell at this precise moment his eardrums would surely suffer irreparable damage. So he only smirked at the thing, "No can do buddy", before stalking out the door and carefully locking it behind himself– after all he didn't want anyone else stumbling on something so ... disgraceful.

Now, where was that conniving bitch?

Even if his innate cunning and foresight had temporarily deserted him, he was very sure who was to blame for ... well, he couldn't even _think_ it.

In fact, there were four possible explanations for the Thing's existence. But since Blaise was certain that he was neither going mad nor had Draco or his Father procreated without his prior knowledge, it only left him with the fourth alternative.

An alternative that was so shameful for any Slytherin - and simply unworthy of their self-proclaimed Prince – that Blaise was loathe to even contemplate it.

But contemplate it he had to – for simple lack of other satisfying explanations – and so he set out to find the most probable perpetrator – otherwise known as '_that conniving bitch'_ – in order to restore at least a touch of dignity to his fallen friend.

"Parkinson!"

Startled away from her evening gossip session, Pansy Parkinson pursed her thin lips, a scathing reply already on her tongue. She didn't like being interrupted while pursuing her most profitable trade.

But Blaise didn't leave her any room for complaints. Gripping her upper arm hard, he steered her away from her group of tittering birds and out of the common room.

"What in Merlin's Name... _Zabini_!?" Pansy hissed through angrily clenched teeth.

"I know what you did," he snarled back, "and you_ will_ reverse it."

"What? Blaise ... you've gone barking ." Her denial ended on a nervous giggle.

"There!" He rounded on her, one finger almost poking her flat nose. "No sense in denying it, Parkinson, you've always been an awful liar. If you weren't such a malicious little whore I wouldn't know how you got sorted into Slytherin." He took a deep breath. "Now. I know that you put that curse on Draco – don't shake your bloody head! – I heard you and your little posse cackling about getting him back for ignoring you this year. You will reverse it and you will never tell a soul about it, or so help me Merlin I will write to your father about that half-blood you've been shagging!"

Pansy's eyes widened in disbelieve. "You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would. And just to sweeten it, I will include a certain healer's bill."

By then Pansy's pale complexion had taken on a decidedly greyish tint. "Why you ... why are you so ..." She seemed lost for words.

Blaise raised one black eyebrow. "Mean?", he supplied sarcastically.

"Well," she swallowed, "yes. I admit I put that shrinking curse on him. But you were never one to get so upset over a little joke like that. I mean, no harm no foul, right?"

They had just reached Draco's door and for the second time that day Blaise couldn't stop his eyelids from blinking in disbelieve. "Little? No harm? You've really got to get your head checked out by Madame Pomfrey, Pansy!"

She huffed. "Really, you men are so concerned about your size. Didn't anyone ever tell you that it really doesn't matter? It's all about the bloody technique, Zabini, not that you'd know anything about that."

"Well, I beg to differ. How is he supposed to get anything done like this? How is he supposed to go to class? Or do his homework? Or-" he glanced up and down the corridor, ensuring their privacy before furiously whispering, "his _task_?"

"Oh he can still do all those things. It's not like anybody but him and his little playthings will notice. Or are you telling me that his brain was truly down _there."_

"He can't even sit up straight, how is he supposed to –wait!" Leaning backwards, Blaise contemplated her. "What exactly are you talking about?"

"About the shrinking curse I put on his bloody broom, of course!"

Blaise narrowed his eyes. "Shrinking what in particular?", he asked suspiciously.

Pansy seemed confused. "Well, his dick, obviously." She cocked her head, grinning maliciously. "You're awfully touchy today, Blaise, don't tell me it got you instead."

He ignored her. "What spell did you use?"

She twitched a little. "_Elevare Mentulae_."

"That's ..." he swallowed, "that's pretty straight forward."

Pansy shrugged. "When you want something done, keep it simple."

At that Blaise couldn't contain an undignified snort. "So how did you botch it up so grandiosely, Miss simple-and-easy?"

"_Botch it_!" She shrieked, not caring who overheard them anymore. "I didn't bloody mess up! That's Second Year stuff!" At his raised eyebrows she had the decency to blush. "Well not_ that_ spell, obviously, but the principle, you know the wand movement and all that stuff, the ... the basis for the incantation, the ..." he was still sniggering , "oh never mind, you perverted ape! How did he get back so fast anyway, without me seeing him?" A truly malicious glint entered her beady eyes. "Don't tell me , _it_ actually fell off?"

Blaise was beginning to think that maybe he didn't have all the facts straight. "What do you mean by 'back so fast'? When did he leave?"

"Honestly Zabini, are you sure it shouldn't be you going to Madame Pomfrey for a mental check-up? He left for the Quidditch Pitch about ten minutes ago - and I made damn sure I watched him leave the dungeons with his bloody broom. I thought he told you, he wanted to get a few more hours of training in before the grand opening match against those Griffindorks." She sneered, more out of habit than anything else.

"So," Blaise said slowly, gripping the door handle tightly, "if Draco is still doing his rounds on the Quidditch Pitch – or is possibly on his way back here to thank you for his shrunken ..." he shuddered; unable to actually say the word, he opened the door instead, "then what is _that_?"

Pansy's gaze followed his outstretched arm towards the bed.

"Sweet Mother of Circe!"

"Yeah," Blaise sighed, "that's what I said."

* * *

Draco Malfoy was not having a very good day.

In fact he was not having a good week, or month, or year. It was depressing really but he couldn't remember the last time he had felt truly happy or without any worries weighting down his back.

Well, maybe when the Dark Lord had returned at the end of his Fourth Year. That night he had been ecstatic, thinking of all the ways he would be able to torment Potter and his cronies from now on –now that his family would finally rule the world.

Only they didn't. Come to think of it, it had been a rather rotten and ... ill-informed sort of happiness. After all, thanks to said Dark Lord his formerly pampered and sheltered life had gone straight to the dogs.

Pulling his broom into a classic Wronski Feint, Draco relished in the cool feeling of the wind pulling at his hair. It was rather sad that the only highlight of his day had been narrowly avoiding getting his sensitive bits cursed by some jealous git. If he found out who'd put that spell on his favourite practice broom, heads were going to roll – well, in better times they would have but now he scarcely found the time for his homework let alone revenge.

It really was sad.

As he pulled his broom level to the ground Draco's mind was involuntarily pulled back to that one terrible moment. The moment he had finally and irrevocably realized that life as he knew it was over.

Oh, he had had some inkling before. When more and more Death Eaters began to frequent the Manor, for example, bringing with them the foul stench of fresh death. Or when his father took him on his first raid. Or when his mother grew paler and paler and those dark circles under her eyes turned into real bruises. But still, in his youthful enthusiasm and –he was loathe to admit- folly he had been able to rationalize those away. Necessary evils for his new world to come true, he had told himself. Unpleasant, yes, but one had to make certain sacrifices to get what one wanted.

Only he wasn't sure he still wanted this, since it wouldn't be his future anymore.

He would be dead by the time anyone would be able to reap the results of _his _sacrifices.

At the very bottom of himself Draco Malfoy was selfish. He didn't want to sacrifice himself for some elusive better world when his world had been just fine to begin with – apart from a few tolerable nuisances. And he most certainly didn't want to have to pay for the mistakes of someone else – even if that someone was the father he had admired and feared all of his life.

But when he had realized all that, he was already standing in front of the Dark Lord, listening to his Master's strange, snakelike voice telling him that he was to do the impossible or otherwise he would perish – and his whole family with him.

Oh, he would try. No matter what kind of spoiled prat he truly was, Draco Malfoy had never given up once in his life. It was a matter of Malfoy-Pride!

Pulling his broom to a stop, Draco breathed in the cold, fresh evening air, filling his lungs with deep, even breaths. Yes, he told himself, he would do it. He _could _do it. For himself. For his mother. And maybe even for his father.

He would kill Albus Dumbledore. The wizard even the Dark Lord feared.

It was in this exact moment of perfect resolve that the loud thunder almost sent him spiralling to the ground in shock.

"What in the name of-", startled, Draco gripped his bucking broom tighter to get it back under his control. "Merl-"

A scream a few dozen feet above him had him turning and pulling the handle of his broom up at the same time. It was that type of scream. The kind he had only heard twice in his life. At those raids his father had dragged him on. A scream that told you that a life was just about to end.

It was high and clear, cutting through the cold air like the green light of _Avada Kedavra_.

_A child_, was the last thing cursing through Draco's rumbled thoughts before his broom shot forward and down, down _down_ towards the small figure falling out of the clear night sky, _only a child._

It was pure instinct, honed by hours upon hours of intense seeker training that had him pulling the small boy right out of the air, just a few feet above the ground.

It most certainly had not been any kind of heroic impulse. The last thing Draco Malfoy was or ever wanted to be was a hero. It just sounded too much like Harry-bleeding-heart-Potter.

At least that was what Draco told himself. For what kind of hero got kicked straight in the groin the moment his ... charge stopped trembling?

None he ever heard of. That was who.

* * *

Ginny Weasley was not a happy camper – she really liked that Muggle expression Hermione had taught her this summer. She was not a happy camper. And when Ginny Weasley wasn't happy people were bound to pay. Something her brothers had known for a long time, her friends chose to ignore most of the time, and her boyfriend of six weeks was just about to find out.

Who in Merlin's great world had told him that she liked to be touched _there_ like _that_? For that matter, what kind of girl did he think she was to like being touched _there_ like _that_? Well, in all honesty it wasn't so much the where – her breasts – as the how – groping like his life depended on it, no delicacy at all.

When he, quite forcefully, tweaked her nipples, Ginny lost it.

Pulling out her wand, she was just about to test her new and improved version of the Bat-Bogey hex when a loud bang caused her to fall flat on her ass – with Dean in all of his heavy glory landing right on top of her, his hands still painfully attached to her breasts.

"Get up, get up!" Ginny screeched, beating his broad back with her rather ineffective fists. "I can't breathe! You big, fat oaf, get-!"

"Aunt Ginny?" A small voice said from somewhere near her right ear.

Ginny froze staring into Deans wide eyes. "Did you hear that?", she whispered.

Dean opened his mouth but whatever he had to say was lost in a happy screech - "Aunt Ginny!" - and the poor redhead being smothered by yet another body and a riot of uncontrollable blond curls.

_Well, well,_ her muddled brain thought, seconds before she passed out_, one of my brothers better has a good explanation. Like right about bloody now!_

* * *

**_AN: A big, large, ENORMOUS Thank You to those of you who reviewed! Please keep them coming, I'm teetering dangerously close to the edge of a writer's block and they're the only thing keeping me from falling off! Save me!  
_**

**_Melodramatic? Maybe. But what can I say, I'm addicted ^.^!_**


	5. Chapter 4 - Of Unnerving Evenings

**_Disclaimer: I only own the plot and those characters you don't recognise. The rest belongs to JK Rowlings._**

**_AN: So this is no April fool hoax but the real thing. After reading all your amazing reviews I got really inspired and wrote this in record time. So I decided to give you all a little Easter Present and update today instead of Friday as I originally planned.  
_**

**_I hope you enjoy and tell me what you think ^.^!_**

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**Chapter 4 – Of Unnerving Evenings**

Dean Thomas didn't quite know what to do. Just moments ago he had been snogging a gorgeous witch – _his_ gorgeous witch as he never tired to remind himself – and the next he was on the floor with a little girl dancing the tango on his back.

At least, that was what it felt like.

Worst of all she kept calling his girlfriend 'Aunt Ginny'. Which could very possible mean that one of Ginny's many, overprotective brothers had a kid. Which in turn meant that word_ would_ get back to one or more of Ginny's many, overprotective brothers that he had been feeling up their sister –something they had explicitly and repeatedly warned him against doing.

"Ginny", he hissed, wanting to make sure, "do you _know _her?"

Ginny didn't answer.

He shook her. "He, Ginny!" From the side the little girl joined in, "Aunt Ginny. Don't fall asleep, Aunt Ginny!"

Only then did Dean notice that his girlfriend had fallen unconscious. Shocked, the dark-skinned boy jumped away from her, making the girl on his back fall to the floor with a protesting screech.

"Gin," he touched her face, "hey Gin, wake up. We've got a little problem here." She didn't as much as budge and Dean began to panic. Had she hit her head when she had fallen to the floor? Oh God, he had fallen on top of her. Had he unwittingly smothered her? His thoughts were chasing each other. What if she never woke up again? Her brothers would kill him! They would chase him down and then they would beat him up, curse him, force-feed him things unmentionable, throw him to the Dragons-

The little girl had crawled over to them and was shaking Ginny again. "Aunt Ginny! Aunt Ginny! Wake up, Aunt Gi-"

"Shut Up!" The little girl shrank away from him, her large brown eyes wide and frozen with fear. Slowly they begin to fill with tears.

"Oh, damn it," he drew a hand through his hair, "just let me think, okay?"

Her lower lip started shaking. Her whole body had gone rigid. She was clearly fighting to stay calm – and loosing miserably.

Dean screwed his eyes shut. "Just let me think." He repeated his mantra. "Just let me think."

They needed to get Ginny to the Hospital Wing and the little girl back to her parents. He chanced a glance at her – lips still quivering, tears dropping here and there, face set in a stubborn mask – how old was she anyways? Maybe seven or eight, tops. How come he had never heard that any of the Weasley brothers had a child, let alone a child that old? Well maybe the one in Rumania. What was his name again? Charlie? Or the oldest, the curse breaker. Oh, wait wasn't he the one set to marry the half-veela?

The little girl didn't look much like a Weasley though– no reddish hair, no freckles. Instead she had curly, blond hair and clear, pale skin.

Maybe she wasn't even Ginny's niece. Maybe she wasn't related to any of them. Maybe she only knew Ginny and not her brothers. Maybe she was the child of one of the alumni who'd been at the Halloween Feast. Maybe she had gotten lost playing hide and seek. Maybe word wouldn't get ba-

On the floor, Ginny groaned.

Now was not the time to get distracted, Dean decided. He had a girlfriend to take care of, thoughtless actions to make up for and a little girl to keep quiet.

One thing at a time.

Gathering Ginny in his arms he prepared to take her to the Hospital Wing. At the door he turned around, "Are you coming? I promise to get you back to your parents." Whoever they were.

The girl looked at him, at Ginny and back at him. Her mouth was set in a stubborn pout, but she followed him out of the broom closet.

As they were walking up the stairs to the third floor Dean – to distract himself from the quiet body weighting down his arms – asked her how she had come to be in the broom closet in the first place.

Her pout turned into a scowl but she didn't answer. In fact, she hadn't said a word since he had screamed at her.

Oh well, soon she wouldn't be his problem anymore. Once they'd reached the Hospital Wing Madam Pomfrey would take care of Ginny. He might have to explain what they were doing outside after hours, but he could deal with a little bit of detention and some docked points.

He knew Madam Pomfrey would call Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall to deal with the girl. They would find her parents and send her home with a stern warning not to roam the halls of Hogwarts until she was old enough to attend it legally.

Yes, Madame Pomfrey would take care of everything.

Only – when Dean finally arrived at the Hospital Wind, his arms heavy and his breathing fast – Madame Pompfrey was nowhere to be found.

* * *

"What is happening?" Phineas Black was calling from a portrait outside the DADA-classroom.

"Don't be so insufferable nosey, Phineas." Armando Dippet, admonished. "Let them work in peace, if you please."

"Yes, you would know everything about keeping out of other people's business, wouldn't you Dippet?" Phineas hissed, "A whole lot of good it did you."

"Phineas," Dily Derwent sighed, her silver looks quivering, "will you _please_ keep the peace?"

"Will all of you be quiet? I can't hear anything they're saying in there." Everard Prewett was craning his head to look around the half-closed door of the classroom.

"You just want to know if your miserable offspring is going croak or not." Phineas grumbled. "Well, let me tell you-"

"Here comes Madam Pomfrey", announced a fifth voice excitedly, "something must be happening."

The school nurse knocked on the classroom door. When McGonagall moved to open it, most of the painting's occupants pressed their faces to the frame, trying their hardest to see as much as they could of what lay behind the door.

Professor McGonagall frowned at the ancient Headmasters and -mistress, a frown that turned into a scowl when she spotted a slip of pink silk behind the painting's apple tree. "Who is guarding the Gryffindor Common Room?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the tree answered indignantly.

"My dear," Minerva McGonagall raised her eyebrows, "I'm dealing with enough nonsense as it is tonight. If you are not back in your own painting in five minutes, I'm afraid I will have to find another portrait to guard my students."

With that she turned around, tartan-robes trailing behind her – and closed the door to the indignant protests of the gathered portraits.

Sighing once more McGonagall surveyed the scene before her. Madame Pomfrey had thankfully worked fast and was already putting Ronald Weasley onto a conjured stretcher before moving over to Hermione Granger and the girl.

Professor McGonagall wasn't sure what to make of this - all of this. Sure, Harry Potter and his friends weren't known for sticking to the rules, but usually Miss Granger kept her two male friends in somewhat tolerable bounds. For the girl to take the initiative and even use dark magic... Minerva McGonagall shuddered to think at the consequences if her best student were to acquire a taste for the darker side of the Magical World.

And then there was the child.

The child, who looked so very much like a younger version of Hermione Granger but for the eyes. The child, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere and clung to Hermione as if her life depended on it.

McGonagall watched Pomfrey try to separate the two girls in order to put Miss Granger on a second stretcher but the small child would have none of it.

"NOOO!" She wailed, holding fast to Hermione's neck. "Noo. Let Gooo!"

"It's all right, dearest," Madame Pomfrey tried to soothe the distressed child, "I just have to put her onto the stretcher. You can hold her hand, how's that?"

The girl shook her head, before burying it once more into Hermione's wild locks. The nurse looked beseechingly at Dumbledore. "I can't force her to let go, it might hurt Miss Granger if she struggles too much. And I don't want to stun her."

Professor Dumbledore, who had been quietly surveying the scene, a pensive look in his eyes, nodded before pulling out his wand. "A feather-light charm should suffice, Poppy. We will go about separating them once we are back at the Hospital Wing. A little bribe of chocolate might just do the trick." His burned hand moved as if to caress his beard before he caught himself and, with a regretful smile, he put it back into his robe's pocket. "Do you know what might ail Miss Granger, Poppy?"

The medi-witch shook her head, "I will have to run a few tests once we've got them in the Hospital Wing and the child well away from Miss Granger – she confuses my diagnostic spells. How did she end up here anyways, Headmaster?"

"That, my dear, is an excellent question. We have been having quite the animated debate over it."

Pomfrey huffed before waving her wand and levitating the two stretchers out of the door. "You might have just asked the child, Headmaster, she seems to be old enough to speak. Four or five years, if you ask me."

"Oh, we did, Poppy." Dumbledore agreed, following her out of the door and ignoring the excited chit-chat of the assembled ancient Headmasters. "Only she did not think it wise to answer. I fear the little dear has been quite traumatised."

"She's like a little netwick vine," added Professor Sprout helpfully, "latches onto the first thing she sees. Which, in this case, was Miss Granger. But how she came to be here ... Do you think Miss Granger summoned her?"

"Well, Pomona, if she did, I fear it was quite by accident."

"So, you don't think Miss Granger was performing a summoning ritual, Albus?" Professor McGonagall resumed their previous debate. "I did not quite recognise the runes she used. Bathsheba, what did you make of them?"

The Ancient Runes professor frowned. "Ancient Egypt, most likely. I did recognise a few of them from the Book of Death, dark, very dark indeed."

"I presume she was trying to divine the future," Professor Vector, who had been quiet for a long time, remarked.

"Interesting thought, very interesting," Professor Dumbledore ran his good hand along his beard, "what made you think of it, Septima?"

"How she arranged the ritual in the room, it was clearly based on the Arithmantic principles Octavia Blasbush determined in her monograph '_Arithmantic Prophecies. The Logic of Divination'_. And she did ask me certain questions lately, now that I think of it."

"Yes, yes," Professor Sinistra agreed enthusiastically, "now that you mention it. Tonight Thuban can be seen very clearly. As you are aware, the star is known for its multi-dimensional properties as it exists in several time-lines at once. We did talk about it just this week in class. If I remember correctly, Miss Granger asked if its light will reach the castle. And I answered that it not only would but that it will be perfectly aligned with the western part of the castle, especially the first floor and in particular ..." she looked alarmed at Professor Dumbledore.

"In particular the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, yes Aurora, I am quite aware. I'm also aware that, if you believe Salinus Longbeard's magical world chart, that classroom lies on the crossing of the 7th degree of longitude and the 3rd degree of latitude. Coordinates that are, if I am not quite mistaken, very important in the Arithmantic variety of Divination, correct Septima?"

"Indeed, Headmaster."

"A pity Sibyll has not joined us tonight." Professor Dumbledore sighed as they rounded the corner to the Hospital Wing.

"Yes," McGonagall barely suppressed a rather undignified eye-roll, "a pity indeed. I'm sure her _insights_ would have been most valuable."

The headmaster's eyes twinkled but he did not comment. Instead he spelled open the doors the Hospital Wing and motioned for them all to enter.

"Madame Pomfrey, good that you are here!" Dean Thomas had jumped up when he saw the doors opening. "You have to take a look at Ginny. You see we were, well never mind, and suddenly this girl jumped on my back, and I kind of fell on her and now she is unconscious, and I don't know if she's hurt badly, and the girl won't say a thing, and ...Oh, ahem, good evening Professors, I well, I, that is... Is that Ron? And Hermione Granger? Wha-"

"Lyra!" A blond girl ran past Dean Thomas and threw herself at Hermione Granger's still levitating stretcher, almost overturning it. "Mom?!"

"Well, well," Professor Dumbledore murmured in the ensuing chaos, "it seems things have just taken quite the interesting turn."

In his pocket, a Gallon began to glow.

* * *

It was shortly after midnight when Severus Snape crawled out from beneath the Whomping Willow and into the cold, wet air of the autumn night. With an annoyed flick of his wand he scourgified the dirt and sod on his robes; unwelcome reminders of the - undignified and hurried - trip through the underground tunnel as well as the Dark Lord's botched Halloween ravel.

Just a few minutes earlier, he had been quietly gloating at Rabastan Lestrange's stuttered explanations of just how he had managed to lose the virgin sacrifice indispensable for the planned ritual, when something in his pocket had started to faintly burn.

Fighting down the annoyed twitch, he always felt when he was reminded of Dumbledore's insistence to use a means of communication Harry Potter and his mutinous group of friends – of all people!- had invented, Snape stealthily slipped out of Malfoy Manor's grand ballroom and into a hidden alcove before he even considered pulling the Gallon out of his robes.

It was risky for Dumbledore to contact him while he was with the Dark Lord and Snape knew it had to be important for the old man to do so now.

_Students conducted a questionable ritual in your classroom. Interesting results. If you are free I'd like to advise you to cut your visit short. _

A low growl threatened to mount from his throat to his mouth. Oh he knew just who would be impertinent enough to dare and defile his classroom.

The moment he was back he would make sure that _this time_ Dumbledore had no choice but to expel bloody Harry Potter. Or at least punish him with enough detention to last the rest of the year. Detention, of course, served with none other but Severus Snape himself!

And so it was that Professor Snape set about the long walk back to the castle in a righteous furry.

He had just passed Hagrid's cabin and was moving towards the northern entrance of the castle, when loud voices to his right drew his attention.

Somebody was out on the Quidditch Pitch and that somebody was fighting. Snape knew that in his capacity as a teacher he would have to punish whoever was out after hours. But right now he was in a hurry and could not be bothered to mediate some idiots' quarrel. They would have to sort it out like men themselves and better be grateful for it.

"He ... You ... Stop... Stop it!"

Professor Snape froze. Was that his godson's voice he just heard? Carefully turning around Snape couldn't help but scowl when he saw Draco Malfoy's tell-tale silver-white hair gleaming in the moonlight like a beacon.

From the distance all he could really discern was Draco's backside but as Snape drew nearer he could see that his godson was trying – and failing – to fight somebody off. A much smaller somebody.

Snape almost turned back around.

It would do Draco some good, if for once one of the first year students he liked to bully fought back. It might even teach him a lesson.

Yet, as far as Snape could see Draco wasn't even truly trying to fight the kid – as much as the boy loathed using his fists, he was never shy about getting into physical confrontations, especially when his opponent was weaker and smaller.

While the professor was contemplating the situation from afar Draco Malfoy went to his knees, his hands raised over his face, trying to protect himself from the furious onslaught of fists, teeth, and feet.

Deciding, that his godson had learned all the lessons he was going to, Snape raised his wand.

"Stupefy!"

In the sudden red light, Snape could see Draco's startled grey eyes turn into his direction, before the kid crumbled on top of him, his teeth still imbedded in Draco's hand.

"Wah-!" Draco seemed disoriented as he pushed the boy away from himself. His head swivelled around, hand grabbing for a wand that he had previously forgotten, before his body relaxed as his blinded eyes readjusted to the darkness and he recognized Severus Snape's dark form coming towards him. "You could have hit me!"

"A simple 'thank you' would have sufficed," was Snape's dry reply.

He crouched next to Draco and turned over the frozen body, so that he could see his face more clearly. Startled he drew back. "It's just a kid!"

"I know." Draco said, rubbing his hand. "He bloody bit me."

Snape ignored him. "How come he's at Hogwarts?" he murmured, searching the boy's pockets for any sort of clue, "he can't be any older than eight."

"Wouldn't a better question be why he_ attacked_ me?"

Snape only raised one dark eyebrow. After a while Draco looked to the side. "Okay, fine. I can be a git. Sometimes. But this was completely unprovoked. Merlin, I even saved the kid's life."

"You did? Do tell."

Draco shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "I was up flying, trying to clear my head, you know..."

"I told you to let me help."

Draco's body tensed, "It's my task," he hissed, "mine. I will not let you steal the honour meant for _my _family!"

"It would not be stealing, Draco," Snape said quietly, it was an argument they had had quite a few times now and which – he was quite certain – would be repeated for the foreseeable future, "nor is it an honour. But we are digressing. How did you save the boy?"

In the moonlight Draco's eyes flashed dangerously but when he answered his tone was calm. "As I said I was flying when there was a sudden thunder almost throwing me from the broom and the next thing I know the kid is falling out of the sky."

"Out of the sky," Snape repeated slowly, incredulously.

"Out of the bloody sky," Draco confirmed, "and when I catch him just inches from the ground he turns around and attacks me. As if I killed his mother, or something."

Snape's eyes narrowed, "Did you?"

"No! Bloody Merlin, Snape, I've never seen the kid before in my life. Besides," he added, strangely embarrassed, "you know very well, I've never killed anybody."

Snape looked at the stunned child on the ground. "Did he say anything to you."

"No, well yes, but it was all jumbled up and I was busy trying to defend myself. Excuse me if I didn't quite catch his narratio."

"No need to be sarcastic, Draco."

Draco rolled his shoulders in a casual shrug before standing up and dusting off his robes. "Not that I am not ... grateful, but what are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to be away on important business? How is my mother anyways?" He tried to sound casual, but Snape could sense the anxious undercurrents.

"She is just fine, Draco," he said quietly, "a little bit perturbed at having her house taken over but otherwise fine."

Draco's shoulder's squared. "She knows it is an honour to have them in the Manor."

"Of course, Draco." Snape waved his wand at the little boy, levitating his prone form a few feet above the ground.

"You are not answering my question, Severus," Draco said as he moved to follow Severus Snape up towards the castle. "What are you doing here?"

Snape cast Draco a sharp glare over his shoulder. "I was called back for urgent business, which is all you need to know."

"So, where are we going now?"

"Careful, Draco, you start to sound very much like Harry Potter right now, always asking questions over questions - no subtlety discernible."

Draco's jaw squared. "Forgive me professor. Let me rephrase: If you are taking him to Dumbledore I'm afraid I will have to take an early evening. And do keep my name out of it."

They had reached the great entrance and Snape turned towards his student. "Feel free to retire to your room, Draco. I will try to keep you from having to visit Dumbledore, but I cannot make any promises. I do hope you have brushed up on your Occlumency skills."

With that he disappeared through the large portal, the unconscious boy floating eerily behind him.

Draco Malfoy narrowed his eyes at the slightly ajar doorway. "That's what you get for playing hero," he mumbled before moving through the door himself and turning right, towards the dungeons. "It's really not worth all the fuss."

* * *

Pansy was walking up and down the length of the Draco's dorm awkwardly rocking the small bundle in her arms.

"Great job," called an annoyed Blaise form the bed, "he's not stopping."

"What?" She mentioned to her ears. "Didn't quite get that."

"He doesn't stop!" Blaise screamed over the baby's wailing.

Pansy scowled at him. "Excellent work, stating the obvious!"

"Well, if you had any motherly qualities I wouldn't have to."

"Me? Motherly qualities?" Pansy scoffed, "Have you met me?" She stalked over towards the bed, holding the baby as far away from her as possible. "Here you try it."

"Great Salazar no, I'm the boy, you're the girl, remember."

"Remind me again, why we haven't told a professor about him – or her?" Pansy asked annoyed, before putting the baby down next to Blaise. "We could be well asleep by now, instead of getting a permanent headache, and possible growing deaf?"

"Because this somehow concerns Draco and Snape isn't here. You try explaining its existence to McGonagall or, Salazar help us, _Dumbledore_. They're bound to keep an eye on Draco after this and that - might I remind you - can absolutely not happen." He moved a little further away from the child, before casting another silencing charm on it.

"Well," Pansy huffed, crossing her arms in front of her impressive but fake chest, "we could just leave him in front of the Hospital Wing."

"We could, and we will, but I still think we should wait for Draco. After all, we found it in his room, on _his_ bed. I'm still not convinced it isn't Draco himself!"

"What isn't me?" Draco had quietly entered his room, startled to find it already occupied. "And would somebody explain why my door was locked and warded?"

Blaise pulled out his wand. "What was the name you gave your first broom?" He hissed, keeping his wandtip trained on Draco's chest.

The blond boy narrowed his eyes. "What is the meaning of this, Blaise?"

His friend stood up, carefully stepping closer. "Just answer the question."

"Toy-broom or real broom?"

"Real."

"Martin."

Blaise lowered his wand, just as Pansy started sniggering. "You called your broom 'Martin'? That really puts things into perspective."

Draco glared at her. "Shut it, Pansy."

"Oh, Martin, you feel so good between my legs. So hard and _strong_."

Finally snapping after a long and unnerving night, Draco Malfoy pulled out his wand, advancing menacingly on the girl. "You will shut your trap right this instance, Pansy, or so help me Salazar I wi-"

The moment his eyes fell on the bed behind Pansy he froze, lowering his wand. "Merlin, what is that?"

"That, mate," Blaise said from behind him, "is a baby. Know anything about how it came to be here?"

Dumbly Draco shook his head, before narrowing his eyes. "No, but I know who might. And I am going to ask him."

* * *

**_AN: I know, no Dramione action this chapter either. But there will be a small, little, tiny bit next time, so something to look forward to ^.^._**

**_Please review! It is the fuel that keeps me writing!_**


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